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Copyright © 2010 Frenulum. All rights reserved.
So-called “flash fiction” consists of ultra-short stories, just little vignettes to plant a scene in your head. Where you take them after that is up to you.
All of these are independent, and appear in no particular order. In my opinion, reading them one after the other is a less than optimal experience.
If you like this sort of thing, see also Flash Fiction II, Flash Fiction III, Flash Fiction IV, Flash Fiction V, Flash Fiction VI, Flash Fiction VII, Flash Fiction VIII, Flash Fiction IX, and Flash Fiction X.
Each of the stories in Flash Fiction XI was inspired by a reader. I am very grateful to these contributors for sharing their real and fantasy lives with me. And you, dear reader, would be very surprised to know which is which.
(For the former Miss Smith and her sexy, inventive mind.)
I pulled my dripping cock from her mouth, and milked the shaft until a single pearl of cum beaded right at the tip. I love to do this, to watch her eager hunger and delight as she leans slowly forward to taste that first reward with the tip of her tongue.
She leaned toward me. Closer. Slowly. Sapphire eyes wide.
Ever so gently, she touched the bead of cum with her cornea.
The fluid wicked onto her eye. She pulled back. A glittering gossamer arc of semen bridged from her eye to my cock. She blinked, cum-coating her lashes. The creamy tear that wandered down her cheek was as beautiful as her smile.
(For Emily in blue satin, with my appreciation.)
Roger and I had just left the restaurant when we ran into a couple we know, Paul and Debbie. Paul is a client of Roger’s and the two of them started talking business right away. Before long I was griping on and on to Debbie:
“...all the time. Everywhere we go he sees somebody he has to talk to ‘for a minute,’ but it’s never just —”
I realized that the last thing Roger had said was my name. He added, “Twelve with the paddle.”
Mortified, blushing, I immediately reached into my purse for The Book — I am required to have it with me always. I wrote with trembling hands. Debbie gasped as she took in the pages of crossed-out entries — and the list that was fresh.
I put the book away, meeting no one’s eyes. Paul broke the silence. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Roger. Appears I have a thing or two to learn.”
As they walked away, Debbie clung to Paul’s arm, pleading.
(For my inside source, as informative as she is lovely.)
We touched glasses — clink! — and sipped beer.
“So, how’s the sex-doctor business?”
“I had some good news today,” I replied. “My grant from the NIH came through — a quarter mil.”
“Decent! For what?”
“Studying the masturbation techniques of teenagers. Hey, you all right?”
“Got some beer down the wrong way. You serious? You’re gonna ask a bunch of schoolboys how they whip the skippy?”
“Not ask, watch. And it’s girls, only: ages sixteen through nineteen. You feel like contributing to the advance of science, I could maybe dig up a spare white coat for you.”
(For an environmentally responsible fan.)
She opened her cum-filled mouth to show me, waiting on her knees while I caught my breath. It was a lot of cum, even for me; her silent, wide-eyed entreaty wasn’t hard to read.
“Bet I know what you want,” I said with a smile, and she nodded happily. “All right, darling, I’ll let you have your favorite play time.”
I stretched out prone on the bed, legs apart, and got comfy. I felt her move into place. Felt the drizzle of cum and spit on my ass — on the cheeks, between them, oozing across my asshole. Then her agile tongue and soft warm lips, sucking up every drop. Then the renewed drizzle, and another hungry cum-hunt; and again.
We can spend a peaceful hour this way. She calls it “recycling.”
(For Amy, who has thought about such things.)
Naked, blindfolded, I knelt on the window seat of the bay window in my living room, facing the glass. My owner said, “It’s time. Ready... set... go.” I felt a brush of cloth as he pulled the curtains open. I began to masturbate, my juices hot and slippery on the busy fingers of both hands.
Through the glass, I heard cheers and applause. I wonder how many people saw me cum.
(For tigerd, always on the lookout.)
I was up on my roof patching a leak, so when the mailman stopped at the house across the street and looked carefully all around the neighborhood, he didn’t see me.
He slipped inside a quickly-opened front door. An hour later he was back on his route. I had had plenty of time to fetch a telephoto lens for the parting kiss.
The couple that bought that house five months ago is in their early twenties, no kids. The wife is a knockout: great smile, pretty face, tight figure, and a rack to dream about.
It’s time I gave her a more thorough welcome to the neighborhood.
Please write, and let me pass your comments along to the people who were the true authors of these vignettes. Thank you!
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